Time Throws Fire
by Ophelia Everfall
Content Warning: This is a story.
Part One | Redux Eterna
Part Two | Polymath Blues
Part Three | The Feather
Part Four | Wizard
Part One | Redux Eterna
Chapter Five
Countess Vysara was Hitheroth, whose visage had been brought to own the battleship only just passed over again by those fools in charge of Elaria’s homestar fleet; happenstance would prove misnomer as occurrences like these had been constant.
Preference falling to those of lesser make was abundant and absurd. She thought only her wisdom understood this as the blasphemy to her goddesshood it was. Performances of superiority had been cut short and misled, missions lacking proper grandeur of reverence commanded and without that accompanying completeness she deserved of peers and servants alike. The unworthy had been thrust upon her by those lesser men in charge. No one kept up with this woman anyway.
Her omniscience was far from peaceful. The nation of Detonius upon the world Stiggmatt would be the birth for Hitheroth to see themself about the galaxy. Its womb of kaleidoscopic, shadowed depths enveloping with hydronic corrosiveness was fit for it alone. The body brought to wholeness for standing beside these lessers; humanoids, was only eclipsed by the recumbent essence she’d embody when returning to Detonius’ waters in full.
Elaria’s admiralty was so far below her they’d not have a clue what to do with the sumptuous bounties she’d manifest them effortlessly in combat and strategy, delivered to their ignoramus disregard. One bravest object shared with her their seeing of a great lost opportunity in displaying their queen’s perfection in a battle of brawn—they alone to grasp the completeness of absurdity.
This girl was now consumed by Vysara’s cruel manipulations, lips caressing her toes, no idea that joyous hell to be paid in shortest order, nor exactly how much they’d enjoy going under at her wrought willpower. Their sharing in regard to admiralty’s ultimate transgression of false oversight, that clearest witness of their dreadful mistiming in use of her excellence would be the boon to their downfall. They’d even told her, before she’d taken their mind entirely her own, how it almost seemed as if the wrong music had been playing entirely, that some grave mistake had been made in the planning of the entirety of this galaxy they’d found themself within.
Posthumus discretion of Elaria’s oldest and most defunct had seen to tarnish the records of glorious victory after next, failures to her greatness only matched by that titan of form beneath the waters of Detonius.
Hitheroth was of magnitude. Countess Vysara’s current bearing and presumption of focus upon this war was the chance to recapture glory in face of a fittest setting, across from opponents which might hold their own and bring a challenge worth her slightest efforts, with grasp on means of control that would allow her to see it through.
Her battleship Rheinmasst was the finest and most complete construction of war in the known galaxy. Its Titan Driver shot worlds to shatter, her army of smite drones would bring a god to their knees, its projected fields of effection could relocate particles with a delicacy of attention unknown in like technologies.
Everything she touched turned to hyperchrome.
There’d been a foolish and paltry woman who’d seen to find herself sitting as Empress, looking straight passed Vysara in pinging of her favorite snack at that time of failed choosing. Elliot Harper and his Exile were made to lead and the boy would pay by hands of a countess. Instatements such as his incited newfound will for proving herself as that truth she was.
A woman’s throne would be taken—the very same now occupied by some girl. Their fractured armada of faux independence, along with its latent specter of wanting would be disciples of her ire. That man in the dark had been one part of a vision through her all-seeing eye; Oculus. The way he’d throttled a false-empress’s puppet was evocative of the very same way they’d been born.
Nothing pleased Vysara more than that witnessing having been part of her maiden cypher; a mystery of vision untangled through the timeless portal. Every reach into depths of Oculus would gift nothing but confusion to all but the countess. It was she alone whose creations brought to action would sport rawest fruition.
Hitheroth would lead her to remake this galaxy in stead of only one; itself.
Objects were playing in the bath at her will. They would all live to die one moment soon in the greatest ecstasy known to humankind—all captives and servants alike. Now cleaning Elouise’s outstretched heel with their tongue, that girl didn’t look the part. Vysara hadn’t found their work up to par. They’d seized, pulled back in stillest expression stricken by a hardly seen, underlying terror.
Those who’d known this object’s fate would feel the bliss of heaven, their bellies boiling with pleasure of complete release—minds longest gone—watching from places of distant witness. This one had lowered themself into the hazed liquid at her silent command.
Eye’s that bled a one who’d catch their gaze had softened for the girl, some rarest happening. They’d feel the reach of her rapturous overtaking more than any other as they slipped beneath the surface.
“You.”
Angered with the loss of this sole companionship found in her objects, she’d commanded a boy with her eyes to rise and expose their musculature from the bubbling brook of glowing emerald light. Its visions were shot through by streaks of white and punctuations of gold. Something within that viscousness made any who’d reside for only a single moment—one softest footfall, a slip of the finger, even the falling of a plucked hair—become ‘rightful property of Queen,’ in mind, body, and heart forever.
Her eyes had pointed, “Him.”
She’d leaned back into the supportive and giving arms of her favorite object to toy with, curling inward her solemnifying legs from above those last struggling splashes of a girl who’d needed far more practice with her tongue—but something was off.
The Countess hadn’t found a shade of enjoyment as the girl’s fighting for survival ceased breaking waves within her most solitary manifestation of perfection in this universe; the bath itself, Synthesis. Those men now excavating each other ruthlessly at her command atop the parapeted edging would soon find their own fate becoming a part of her eternal pool of trapped souls.
Remembrances of the many within had spun in Countess Vysara’s mind for only a moment before she’d twirled in fright of fury to grip her choice object by the scruff of his hair and neck to make him watch—pinning the man-child down from behind and feeling that surging fear of anticipation for the one thing he’d hated thought of most, before she’d long ago forced him to him love it—then began running him through.
